


At the Theatre

by cabinetcaligari



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Facials, Hand Jobs, Legilimency, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex, unredeemed!draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabinetcaligari/pseuds/cabinetcaligari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In front of me is Potter’s youngest boy, blushing and nervous and deliciously shy. I’m itching to play with him a bit. To let my magic glide over his mind, see what he wants to hide from me so badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Theatre

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Birds, I wanted to resist and write something different than crossgen powerplay, but then there were your ever-inspiring prompts and also Legilimency and I obviously failed. I had a blast writing this story and toying with the dynamics, and I hope you’ll have as much fun reading it. Many thanks to my amazing beta gracerene for her help with this story!

The lobby is almost empty when I enter the theatre. Malfoy’s aren't usually late, but I am this time. For some reason I couldn’t decide what to wear tonight. When I finally settled for a sharp, grey suit, my pocket watch was already hitting me with increasingly sharp Stinging Hexes to make me hurry up.

It saves me however from the bustling masses normally clogging the lobby. The cloakroom is nicely empty now, except for one nervous, lanky boy in a too-big uniform. I beckon him with one pale finger, and he almost trips over his own feet as he hurries towards me, helping me out of my coat with a heavy blush. The Malfoy name may not be as reputable as it used to be, but I’ll settle for frightening.

I smile at the boy, or rather, show him my teeth, and he pales before turning around and hanging my robes at a smaller coat stand, shining silver in the dim light. Next to it hangs a heavy burgundy coat, the letters ‘DMLE’ embroidered on the collar. It looks like a burlap sack next to mine. I sigh. Potter never was one for appreciating the finer things in life, like clothes that actually fit. One would think the Potter would have enough money, or at least enough friends, to tell him he looks like a Horklump, and to beg him not to wear his uniform to the theatre. A smaller black coat is hanging next to it, rows of tiny metallic buttons reflecting the light of the candles. I wonder who our beloved Head Auror has brought with him. The coat looks slim enough for a female, but it can’t be the female Weasel. As far as I know they tragically divorced several years back, though not before saddling the world with three Potter-Weasel hybrids. And of course all with the characteristic freckles and atrocious sense of fashion.

I hear the gong chime, one deep, vibrating bang to announce the play is about to begin. I carefully part the heavy curtains separating the theatre from the lobby, and slide into the shadows on the other side. My eyes have to adjust to the dimmed light, but I can already make out my empty seat in the corner of the Royal box, where centuries of Malfoys have enjoyed productions of the greatest wizard writers. I slide into my seat. The Ministry tried to make this post-war society about equality, but money still goes a long way. And the Malfoy name may be tainted, but witches and wizards are still more than happy to accept the Galleons I press into their palms, favours to be named later. Favours like keeping my seat in the best part of the theatre, floating above the public. An invisible net of spells is woven between this box and the masses below, muting their noise and amplifying only the sounds on stage.

The light in the box is dim, but I can see the few seats are all taken. A couple of vaguely familiar wizards and witches are sitting stiffly upright, small binoculars in their hands. In front of me, of course, is Potter. Typical. One well-aimed Expelliarmus, and suddenly they're giving you access to the best box the theatre has to offer. His arms are draped unceremoniously over the balcony edge, his chin resting on his hands. Next to him, a small slender figure is reading the programme, his hair equally black and messy. With a small shock I realise that he must be Potter’s youngest son. The one Scorpius is always talking about, but who I’ve only seen on the platform of the Hogwarts Express. The one who always blushes so furiously when he sees me and fiddles with his hair. The one who barely managed to give me a shaky, sweaty handshake when Scorpius reluctantly introduced me to him several years ago. The one with his father’s features, but with a nice own clumsy shyness, as opposed to his father’s careless arrogance.

In front of us, the play has begun. It’s about two married couples, playing emotional games disguised as a marital row, all set during one alcohol-drenched night. One of the couples is clearly made up of Slytherins. They use the other couple as spectators and will-less figurants when performing their dance of verbal barbs, provocative seduction, and emotional blackmail. I like it.

As the yelling and screaming on stage really gets going, I rummage around in my pockets for the play's programme. I must make more noise than intended, because the small black head in front of me turns around. The moment he sees me, his large green eyes widen in shock. I smirk at him. He hastily turns around, but even in the half-light I can see a blush creeping up from under his jumper. I wonder what makes him so uncomfortable around me. I know I appear intimidating, cold, sharp, but I usually only provoke this degree of uneasiness in people who I am…displeased with. Not in bumbling little Gryffindor boys like him, who have never experienced first-hand why you shouldn’t deceive a Malfoy.

I let my eyes rest on the silhouette of his head. He sits motionless in his chair, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he moves. He forms such a nice contrast with the rowing onstage, this nervous, innocent boy, set against a décor of drunk adults tangled in a net of emotional manipulation and lies. I am not really concentrating on the play, but then again, it seems to me he isn’t either.

Next to him, Potter is laughing uproariously as the male Slytherin on stage threatens to Avada Kedavra the female Slytherin, but when he points his wand, an umbrella comes out. Potter joyously elbows the boy, who almost falls from his chair. I smile, not in the least because the boy surely realises I saw that. He sits stiffly upright again and combs a hand through his hair, making it stick up this way and that. My fingers grip the edge of the seat. I fight the urge to grab those strands and pull his head back, forcing him to look at me so that I can see those bright green eyes widen in distress again.

Suddenly, the stage curtains close. The candles slowly start to shine brighter, giving one time to adjust to the light. I clear my throat and smooth my robes. In front of me, Potter tramps to the box's exit, stopping when he spots me.

‘Malfoy,’ he says, nodding curtly. I nod back and conjure a cold little smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

‘Potter,’ I respond. ‘And my, Albus. Such a long time since we have last seen each other.’

I pin him down with my gaze, watching him squirm deliciously under my staring. The blush is back and gloriously so, and he tries to wipe his hands on his trousers. Just when the silence stretches out almost too long, and I sense him preparing to make a bid for freedom and run into the lobby, I stick out my hand. He looks at it, then back at me in confusion, standing frozen on the spot.

‘Well?’ I ask him. ‘Did your father not raise you to shake hands when introducing yourself?’

Next to him, Potter nudges his shoulder. ‘Go on Albus, give Mr Malfoy a hand.’

The boy reluctantly catches my hand and shakes it. I smile at him and curl my fingers around his palm, holding his hand just a moment longer than necessary. I feel him tense, his lanky frame stiffening under his woollen jumper. His sweaty palm glides along my cool skin when I finally let go. I’m itching to know what makes him so nervous, so awkward and tongue-tied in my company. It would be so easy to keep my gaze on him, to use a tiny bit of my Legilimency skills and penetrate his mind, enter his thoughts. To let my magic gently unwind and glide over his consciousness, see what he wants to hide from me so badly.

But no. Not with his father next to him, looking at me suspiciously and following my every move. Potter may be a blockhead, he’s also Head Auror, and I assume he has learnt something since the age of seventeen.

‘Enjoy the play.’ I nod curtly, then walk to the lobby, my robes swishing as I turn around the corner. I still feel the boy’s gaze on my back, and I know he probably hasn’t recovered his voice yet. That thought fills me with contentment.

 

I order a glass of elderflower wine and make some polite chit-chat with a few of the other theatre-goers. Some have been lucky enough to secure my considerable Arithmancy skills - for a large fee, of course. Others move in the same social circles as I do, as my parents did, despite the Ministry's efforts to make the class differences within the wizarding world disappear. Being pure-blood doesn’t mean unfettered access to the elite and prestigious anymore. But I'd rather surround myself with the people from my childhood, if only because they know how to behave at the theatre. And because they know the pale, young elderflower wine served here is far inferior to the bottles of Superior Red stacked in the Malfoy cellars.

Before long the gong chimes again. I say my goodbyes to Clarissa Rosier and go back to my seat. From the corner of my eye I see Albus Potter shuffling past. I turn my head and nod at him, a sly smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. With satisfaction, I see his step falter, before he tears away his gaze and hastily moves to his seat, his eyes fixed on the ground. I lower myself into my chair, playing with the silver signet ring on my finger. The green tourmaline making up the snake in the ring is worn smooth. Generations of Malfoys have worn the ring, the relief of the animal a reminder of our roots, of the kind of magic flowing through our veins and colouring our spells. How different this magic is from Potter, sitting in front of me, his chin on the balcony edge again like the philistine he is. The few times I've felt his magic, it was so different from what I am used to. Powerful, yes, but where the magic of a Malfoy tastes dark like scorched wood, like the blazing fire and hot metal of a blacksmith, like leather and old books and wisps of smoke, Potter smelled… awful. Crisp and clear, like the air after a thunderstorm, like woods and the salt of the sea. And it made my magic flinch, encountering so much light and naiveté. I shudder at the memory and sink deeper into my chair.

The play has started again. On stage, the Slytherin man has lured the Hufflepuff outside to entrust him with a few smoothly contrived stories of murder. With approval, I witness how the Hufflepuff falls for the manipulation and reveals his own secrets in turn, giving away plenty of material for future blackmail. Classic Slytherin tactic, but ever so effective. Hufflepuffs just never learn.

After a while though, I get bored. The conversation onstage escalates, and the male Slytherin loses his cool and begins to yell at the Hufflepuff. How disappointing.

I look away from the stage, and my eyes drift to the boy. He looks a tad bit more relaxed than before the break. His shoulders are slumped and his body sags against the back of the chair. My eyes flick to his father, but Potter looks as careless as always, inattentive to his immediate surroundings and focused on the actors onstage. Good. I feel so tempted to play with the boy a little, to see if I can make him tense up so deliciously again.

I straighten myself and concentrate, feeling my magic unfurl and recoil at my fingers. I can’t use Legilimency when he’s not looking me in the eye, but I can reach out to him. My magic is a whisper on his skin, mimicking the softest brush of fingertips.

At first, he doesn’t even notice. I concentrate and reinforce the flow, feeling my magic touch his hair as if it were my own fingers. It glides through the strands, demanding his attention. He shuffles in his seat and combs a hand through his hair. I smile and pull my magic back, letting him relax before reaching out to him again. This time I focus on his skull, letting my magic washing over it like water. I feel it connect to his magic, his magical signature an invisible layer over his skin. He tastes as crisp and clean as his father, and even though I’m in his territory now, his magic feels almost shy. Lying quiet against his skin, I sense it following my every move but it does not push me away. The boy sits dead quiet now, and I can barely see his body taking in shallow breaths. Does he know, already? Potter himself is rubbish with mind magic and never understood the importance, so the boy probably has never encountered this before. Doesn’t recognise it.

I sweep my magic together, a ribbon of tingles pulling back over his scalp along his spine, and into my fingertips again. He shudders involuntarily when I flick over that place where his skull gives way to the most sensitive spot of the neck, hidden under soft strands of the blackest hair. I file away how reactive he seems. I like it.

I sink deeper into my chair, stretching and flexing my fingers. Even this form of external Legilimency costs effort, especially when the...let’s say receiving party, doesn’t want to cooperate.

Potter must’ve noticed the boy isn’t really paying attention, as he elbows him and points at the programme, before bending over to whisper something in the boy’s ear. As the boy leans sideways to answer Potter, his gaze catches mine. I smile a nasty smile, lift one brow in a provocative question, asking him wordlessly if he likes the game I’m playing. His eyes widen and I see the tendons in his small hand stand out as he grasps the chair firmly in support. It almost makes me purr with satisfaction. My, what a delectable little boy he is. His crisp, innocent magic makes mine so hungry for another taste.

He quickly turns around again, and almost headbutts Potter in his hurry. I smile. Act like you didn’t see me, Albus. Act like you’re concentrating on the play. You and I both know you can’t escape now. Wouldn’t probably, even if you could.

On stage, the female Slytherin has taken interest in seducing the male Hufflepuff. I vaguely hope she won’t be as abhorrently sentimental as the male Slytherin, but the play can’t really hold my attention anymore, though thankfully the distracting yelling has stopped. I stretch my fingers again and concentrate until my fingertips prickle with magic, so much magic. I can sense him almost immediately, and I easily glide towards his now familiar presence. I see his shoulders tense again and expect his magic to play dead against his skin once more, but then I suddenly feel it flaring up, reaching out to my magic. It almost sparks with sheer power in the half-light of the box as it touches mine. It’s cool and silken and I feel it burning like cold fire, running over me and spiralling around my magic. Goosebumps are raising on my skin, and when I realise he’s deliberately opening up for me and letting me in, I cannot contain the shudder wracking my body.

The moment’s over as soon as it’s started, though, and I slump into my chair. I’ve never felt somebody opening up for me this eagerly, or magic so temptingly different from mine. Cool as silk against the prickly darkness inscribed in my skin. It’s like I still feel his touch, and something dark and heated uncoils in my stomach. The boy is still watching the play, but he's sitting against the back of the chair now, his head leaning slightly backwards, as if reaching out for something behind him. As if presenting himself to me. At that thought I have to take a deep, shaky breath, desire for him spiking through my body. My cock is stirring in my pants, swelling against the zipper of my tight suit trousers.

Thanking Merlin for having a seat this close to the exit, I try to get up as silent as possible, and hurry outside, almost tripping over my own feet as soon as I’m in the lobby again. I silently pray nobody sees me and the bulge in my trousers. I look around and when I see the lavatory on my right, I hastily walk inside.

Inside it’s dimly lit, with black marble sinks and a large mirror covering the entire width above the taps at my left. Opposite of them are the toilets, separated by ground-to-ceiling walls and wooden doors. None of them is locked.

I slip into a stall and sigh with relief when I open my zipper and free my cock. It’s half hard already and shivers are running down my spine when I roll my thumb over the head. For a moment I’m tempted to have a go at it right here, in the toilet. But no. I’m not a sixteen year old adolescent anymore, and if I wank, I do it in style. I close my eyes and listen to the silence surrounding me. When I open them again, I feel considerably more calm. I zip my trousers and carefully step out of the toilet, rounding a corner until I’m near the coat stands again. Part of me doesn’t want to consider going home instead of watching the rest of the play, like I can’t control my hormones. But the thought of a slow, lazy wank, while floating in bath or lying on the silken sheets of my bed makes my cock stir again immediately. And I’m not sure if I can find the willpower to concentrate on the play, not with the boy in front of me.

But just as I want to get my coat and go home, I see a black head darting by from the corner of my eye. It disappears around the corner and I hear the door to the lavatory fall shut.

I look behind me, but the lobby appears empty and quiet from what I can see. I carefully tiptoe over to the lavatory and slide back inside again. I close the door and lean against it, my hands in the pockets of my suit trousers and hips tilted slightly forwards. And wait.

I don’t have to wait long though, before I hear the flushing of a toilet and the sound of a lock being opened. Moments later, Albus steps out, hair even more mussed and hands fumbling with his belt. He doesn’t notice me at first, washing his hands and combing his hair back. Only when he turns to grab a hand towel, does he see me watching him. He drops the towel and takes a step back as I step out the shadows, slowly approaching him.

‘Hello, Albus.’

He reddens up to his ears and opens his mouth, then closes it again. Nervousness looks lovely on him. His fingers are playing with the hem of his jumper, and I see a rumpled shirt peeking out from under it.

As his eyes dart to the door I immediately take another step forward, closing the distance between us.

‘I don’t think so,’ I say in my coldest voice, looking down at him. He’s only slightly shorter than I am, but he still has the skinny frame of a growing adolescent boy, like a foal not quite knowing how to use those new, long limbs. He tries to avoid my gaze and looks over my shoulder at the door again, but makes no move to leave.

I feel my magic curling at my fingers again, eager to reach out and have a taste of him. He’s so close, I can almost feel his magic without even trying. The now familiar dark heat is unfurling in my body, itching to connect, to rush over his magic and feed upon it. To make him mine. I clench my fists in my pockets, trying to push the desire down again, to keep control. He looks at me, scared and reverent, but his pupils are blown wide. I know that look. Running deeper than reverence, and covered up by shame, but in his eyes I can recognise his want. My cock stirs at the thought of what I can do to him. I have to know.

Concentrating is hard, but I can make the tingling in my fingers gain force. As soon as I reach out, I feel his magic dancing around mine. In front of me, his cheeks are bright red, and his chest heaves as he’s taking deep, nervous breaths. I smile and the moment he looks me in the eyes again, I tie my magic together and swiftly break into his mind.

Entering someone’s mind feels like floating, like flying without a broom, high up in the sky where sound is muffled and light is soft. Nebulous images flicker in front of my mind’s eye and as I push them aside, pressing deeper, I find what I’m looking for.

He stumbles backwards at the force of my magic and breaks our eye contact. The fog thickens and I’m pushed to the edges, but a triumphant smile is curling at the corners of my mouth. Because his mind has confirmed my suspicions, shown me how much he wants this. How much he wants the wrongness, the forbidden, the slow and lingering burn dark magic can leave on his skin. But above all, how much he wants me.

The boy, meanwhile, is leaning against the marble sinks, looking equal amounts scared and embarrassed. I step aside, clearing the way to the door for him. I see his eyes dart to the door, then to the floor again. He looks like a scared animal, and it only makes me want him more. How tempting it is to throw a wordless, fortified Colloportus Cryptus at the door, grab him by his bony shoulders, and take all that I want from him. But I don’t. I’ve seen his desire, but now I want to hear it. I want him to give himself over to me of his own free will.

‘Albus.’ I straighten and hold up a hand. He looks at me in surprise.

‘There is the door,’ I say in a cool voice, my gaze resting on him. ‘If you want to leave, do it now.’

He continues to lean against the sink though, nervously licking his lips.

‘And if you leave,’ I continue, ‘I won’t reach out to you again.’

I nod in the direction of the door, behind which the theatre lies. The play must have started by now, and Potter has probably noticed the boy is taking his sweet time in the lavatory.

‘If you decide to stay, however, I want you to commit to your decision. To me.’ I take a small step forwards, my boots clicking on the tiles.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his slender throat. There is a whisper of stubble running along his jaw, the slightly darker shade indicating he’s on the cusp of adulthood. I feel my skin prickling with want for him and his magic, as the silence stretches out between us. The doubt in his eyes is clearly readable, how he wants but doesn’t dare to take. I step forwards once more, close enough now to distinguish the tiny, sun-kissed freckles on his nose.

‘Albus.’ My voice sounds raspy with suppressed desire and subdued tension, the sound too loud in the thick silence surrounding us. I clear my throat and close my eyes briefly. When I open them again, he hasn’t moved an inch. His eyes are riveted to my face.

‘Choose.’

The word hangs in the air between us, and for a moment, I am sure he’s going to turn around and flee from the room. The pang of regret settles in my stomach, regret for having taken this risk, for taking the chance that he wouldn’t be strong enough to resist. Then he takes a deep, shuddering breath, closes the distance between us and shakily, but decisively, raises his hand, putting his palm against mine.

His touch feels electric, sparks running through my hands and over my spine. My magic greedily reaches out and makes the air around us crackle with green and heat. I firmly grasp his small hand, walking him backwards to the wall, and almost slamming him against the tiles as I close the distance and kiss him.

His lips feel soft, plump, hot. I try with all my might not to bite through them until I taste blood. He moans softly under me as I keep him pinned to the wall, my arm a crossbar against his chest. As I deepen the kiss he opens his mouth, letting my tongue seek out his. I gently pull at the soft strands of his hair, tilting his head as I kiss him warm and deep. My hips push against him, woollen trousers against his jeans, and as I find his erection, he makes a throaty sound and pushes back even harder.

His breath comes in short huffs now and his kisses are more urgent. I try to open his jeans with one hand, Vanishing the last buttons when they don’t open fast enough. My fingers curl around his cock, still covered by his pants, and he gasps as I squeeze, my thumb circling over the head.

Suddenly, the door creaks. I whirl around, pulling my wand out, ready to either Obliviate the intruder or Apparate away before he sees us. Maybe both.

But the door stays shut, and nobody enters. Damn door.

Behind me, I hear a low noise. I turn around, and the boy is looking at me with a feverish shine in his eyes. He’s still leaning against the wall, his hands splayed against the tiles for leverage. His cheeks are red, his hair dishevelled. His jeans are riding so low I can see his protruding hip bones, his flat abdomen merging seamlessly into that smooth, taut skin just above the base of his cock. He looks beautiful, and strangely enough, even more aroused than before. As far as I know, all I did was turn on my heels and draw my wand.

I think of the creaking door again, and of the images I found in his mind. The images of me, all over him, my magic enveloping him like a second skin. And even in this blurry vision, I could read the naked want in his eyes. It had confirmed my suspicions and invited me to play this game with him.

But now other images are coming to surface. Dim light and whispered voices, jeans straining around his knees, his hot skin scraping against the ridges of jagged brick tiles. The stalls in a pub, most likely, the walls a foot above the ground and the door not quite closed. Suddenly, it clicks, and I smirk. My, who would’ve thought this little boy would like it so dirty, having sex somewhere public? The heady rush of knowing you could get caught any moment now, making your orgasm slam through you, intensified by the high of the risk as you ride on its waves. Would he be interested in giving a blow job in the bathroom maybe, too? Or better even, getting one, unable to escape? With the entire theatre only a few metres away, the door unlocked?

At that thought, I feel my own cock hardening again. I can almost taste him in my mouth already, smooth and heavy and slightly salty, and as sweet as his magic feels when it winds itself around mine. I slowly take a step back, my eyes fixed on the boy.

'Albus.'

He swallows visibly, his eyes still shining. Now that he’s made his choice by staying, he’s at my mercy now. I can see it dawning in his eyes.

'I am going to suck you off,' I inform him in a clipped voice.

He immediately turns bright red, but his eyes darken under his long lashes. His shock and arousal make my mouth water. Oh, how he'll be like putty in my hands.

'There.' I nod curtly at one of the toilet doors. 'Unlocked.'

He closes his eyes and a whine escapes his throat, causing my heart to beat faster and my mouth to run dry. Merlin, how I want him. As he tries to press his hand against his cock, I hit him with a soft, silent Stinging Hex.

'Stop that. As long as we're here, that belongs to me.'

He whimpers and drops his hand to his side again.

As I turn around and open the toilet door, he obediently steps through it. His trousers hang so low they reveal the dimples on his lower back, and the delicious curve where his back stops and the plumpness of his arse cheeks begins.

As soon as he's inside, I close the door and press him against the wall, kissing his mouth, his jawline, pulling his head back to nip at his throat. He tastes hot and salty and boyishly fresh, and the high strangled sounds he makes are driving me insane. I press my hips against him, and roll my hard cock against his, keeping him trapped against the wall with my body. He tries to rock against me, clearly needing that friction I'm not going to give him. Not in the least because I'm afraid to come in my pants like a bloody teenager, which I certainly am not. I pull back from kissing long enough to pull his jumper and shirt over his head in one smooth movement. I could have Vanished them just as easily, but I'd suspected the resulting messy hairdo would look lovely on him. As he appears from under the jumper, his red cheeks and static hair pointing this way and that do not prove me wrong.

I kiss him again, letting my hands glide over his lanky chest. My thumbs circle his nipples which earns me another delicious gasp. I push his trousers and pants down, and his erection springs free, hard and smooth in my hand. Precome is already gathering at the tip as I roll my thumb over the head, wanking him slow and lazy. He moans in my mouth, his kisses getting even sloppier. I feel my own cock straining against my suit trousers, hard and neglected. I push my palm against it, trying to distract myself by concentrating on the boy. I kiss his throat, his chest, sink down to my knees and make a trail of kisses and bites all the way down to his cock. He looks at me in awe, eyes clouded and dark with arousal. I smirk, and without looking away, close my lips around the head of his cock. A shudder wracks his frame as he closes his eyes and throws his head back against the wall. I push my hands against his hips to keep him upright, as his knees buckle and I'm almost afraid he'll drop down.

I push his pants down to his thighs and grab the base of his cock. My tongue makes long wet stripes all the way down from the head to the black curls at the base, and back up again. He groans, and tries to push his hips forward, but I pull my mouth back. He bucks under my hands as I try to keep his hips pinned against the wall.

'Stop moving, or I'll keep you here all night.' I say sternly, my gaze dark. He immediately stops bucking and sags further against the wall, biting down on his red, swollen lips.

'Good boy.' I lick over the head of his cock again, where a drop of salty precome has gathered already. Keeping my hand at the base of his cock, I start to take him in deeper. I open my own trousers to free my erection and begin to move my hand along the shaft, spurred on by his needy whines. His hands are balled into fists, the tendons standing out on them, his mouth slightly opened and slack with pleasure.

Suddenly the door creaks again. His eyes fly open and he wants to back away, but I keep him pinned to the wall, keep my mouth around his cock. He looks at me in panic, and I return his gaze with a warning in my eyes, commanding him wordlessly to stay and not move an inch.

'Albus? Are you there?'

The boy pales in shock as he recognises the voice and I feel joyous, marvelling at how perfect this is. I feel his whole body stiffening, but my only response is to take him in even deeper. His cock has softened in the initial shock, but I feel him hardening again while I work him with my mouth.

'Albus?' The sound of footsteps coming near echoes on the tiles, and I lift a brow at the boy, telling him I'm not going to help him out here. If all goes downhill I'll just Apparate away, and he can explain to his father why he's spent half an hour already in the toilet with his pants down.

He swallows and looks even more panicked as the door of the toilet next to us is opens and closes, and the sound of footsteps comes nearer. Just as I think the Kneazle's got his tongue and I have to Apparate the hell out of here, he clears his throat and says, 'Dad!'

The footsteps stop in front of our door.

'Albus?'

'Yeah, I'm - I'm in here.' His voice sounds deliciously strangled, and I redouble my efforts, looking at him intensely as I take him in deep. At that he lets out a squeaky sound, then puts his hand to his mouth in wide-eyed shock. I smirk around his cock, careful to make no sound.

'Are you alright?' Harry's worried voice drifts through the door. He knocks, two sharp taps sounding obscenely loud in the tense silence, and the boy almost jumps into the air, stiffening under my hands.

'No! Yes! I mean - don't come -'

The rest of his sentence is lost in a low moan as I grasp his balls firmly and roll them in my hands. I'm itching to play with him a bit, make it even more difficult for him. Not just because he's blushing and stammering deliciously. That’s nice too, don’t get me wrong. But most of all because I feel him impossibly hard in my mouth, salty precome leaking on my tongue. Having him under my hands like this, helpless and embarrassed and more aroused than he'd previously been, that spurs me on like nothing else.

'Don't come?' Potter sounds confused, and I can barely contain my laughing. That's right Potter, nobody here is going to come until I say so.

I look up at the boy again, raising one mocking brow, and he blushes a fierce red.

'It's - I - don't come in, please!' he calls, slightly out of breath.

'Are you okay? Sure I shouldn't come in?' Potter asks worried. I feel his presence through the door, his magic rolling off him in waves and breaking on the jagged edges of mine. I wonder if he feels mine too, if he's as sensitive to my presence as I've always been to his.

'No!' the boy snaps back, inhaling sharply as I take him in even deeper, setting up a steady and fast rhythm that almost has his knees collapsing. His head thumps as he throws it back against the wall.

'Albus, what's going on? Did something happen?' Potter sounds suspicious now. Ten points to Gryffindor, I think, although he's still awfully slow for someone calling himself Head Auror. Luckily I don't have to rely on the DMLE for my safety, with the bumbling Potter as their questionable patron saint.

'N- No,' the boy stammers, eyes round and scared, but his cock is still impossibly hard and hot in my mouth.

'It's just- I - I feel a bit sick.' He almost manages a full sentence, I notice. Time to up my game. A wordless spell, and the fingers of my free hand feel slick and cool in the air. The rhythm of my mouth never faltering, I fondle his balls, a slippery trail over the soft skin and even further, until I'm between his arse cheeks. He looks down in something resembling terror, and I know, I know the next sentence will not be so fluent anymore. Seeing him falling apart, losing control, it makes me want to keep him here forever.

'Oh. Okay.' Potter sounds distracted, I notice. Is he getting suspicious?

Then Potter continues, ‘Do you want to go home Albus? I’ll wait for you here and we can leave if you want to.’

The boy stares at me and I glare back at him, demanding him silently to answer, now, for Merlin’s sake. Bloody hell, doesn’t he even have an ounce of controlled, cunning Slytherin in him? I’m concentrating already so I can Apparate the hell out of here as soon as the door handle moves down, and Potter rushes in.

‘Er, no?’ the boy finally squeaks, sounding very shrill. I can’t resist rolling my eyes. We’re not going to win the war this way, this wouldn’t even convince a Hufflepuff. I feel my magic crackling under my skin already, careful to not let it roll off me and alert Potter.

‘Albus?’

‘I’m - I’m okay, Dad!’ he finally calls. ‘I might’ve ate too much tonight?’

‘Oh.’ Potter replies. ‘But if you're feeling that bad, we can go home if you want to.’

‘No! I mean, I don’t want you to miss the play. Really, Dad.’

He sounds almost pleading. How can Potter resist?

‘Really?’ Potter says again, indecisive this time. ‘It’s okay, Albus, I know how it ends anyway.’

‘Really!’ the boy answers hastily. ‘Please, Dad, I’ll come as soon as possible. I’m - I’m feeling a bit better already,’ he adds.

A long silence falls. I don’t move an inch and the boy isn’t breathing at all, his cock going slightly soft again in my mouth. I feel my heart pounding in my throat, the blood rushing in my ears and I’m almost afraid Potter will hear that in the deafening silence around us.

Then, shuffling footsteps resound and Potter calls, 'Okay, I’ll go back again.’

Another short silence falls before he adds, ‘you’re really sure, Albus?’

'Yes, Dad,' the boy answers in a breathy voice.

'Okay,' Potter finally says. The clicking footsteps resound, then ebb away, disappearing completely as the door closes.

Relief floods me. I let out a silent breath I didn’t know I was holding. Under my hands, the boy sags against the wall with a deep sigh. He closes his eyes, his features slowly relaxing. His cock lies soft in my mouth but as I pick up speed again, I almost immediately feel it twitching and hardening. I reach around and circle my fingers around his hole, and he squirms delectably, moaning on every breath, clearly nearing the edge again.

As I work him hard and deep, I feel his balls draw up.his body tenses, and my cheeks hollow as I speed up even more. His fingers grasp my hair and he starts to buck his hips involuntarily, making my eyes water as I try keeping up the rhythm. Then he throws his head back, a low animalistic sound escaping his throat. His body stiffens, the muscles of his arse cheeks tightening, and I feel his come spurt over my tongue. He pulls my hair so hard I'm afraid he'll leave a bald spot, but the sight of him coming undone like this is so mesmerizing, I couldn't stop him for the love of Merlin. I wank myself with long, hard strokes, spurred on by the delicious sight of his flustered cheeks, lips parted in pleasure, and the deep moans carried on his every panting breath.

Finally he starts to twitch, overstimulated by my mouth, and loosens the death grip on my hair. I slowly pull back, letting go of his cock with a soft pop. He looks at me with hazy green eyes, mouth full and red and slightly opened. He looks delectable, soft and round at the edges, relaxed and blissful and all mine for the taking.

I rise, joints creaking after being on the stone tiles for far too long. It’s been ages since I worshipped somebody on my knees like this. The boy did something to me, made me feel an urge buried long ago. But I can’t pinpoint it, not with my cock hard and neglected in my hand and him flustered and beautiful near me.

He looks at my cock and licks his lips. I smile and push him down on his knees. He goes willingly, his mouth so close, looking up and asking me wordlessly what’s next.

I gather my magic again, looking him in the eyes as we connect. His magic feels soft now, gentle and willing, but there’s something else I sense, something reassuring and giving and so very hard to place. Is it trust? It can’t be, Malfoys don’t do trust, are not to be trusted. But it tingles and envelops my magic like a blanket, telling me to take my time, ensuring me he’s not going anywhere. It makes me shudder involuntarily, makes my skin burn, makes me feel jittery with alarm for this foreign sensation, but strangely light as well. But above all, it makes me want to never leave the boy. I want to revel in what he’s giving to me, so easy and unafraid.

I only notice I am wanking myself hard and furious as I feel my orgasm drawing close. It makes my skin hot and prickly, almost oversensitive to his magic surrounding me completely. He looks me in the eyes, and as if knowing what I want from him, as if reading my mind too, he opens his mouth even further and licks his lips.

My orgasm hits me like a whip crack. It makes my toes curl and my hand shoots out to grab his hair for leverage. He sits there on his knees with shining eyes, making me come in his mouth, on his tongue, the white a sharp contrast with the red of his lips.

After what feels like an eternity, I slow down, still panting as he closes his mouth around my cock and licks up the last drops. He lets go of me, and I lean backwards against the wall, wanting to sag down and just sit here. In front of me the boy slowly rises, looking at the drop of come on his jumper. I want to wandlessly Scourgify it, but he stops my hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He dresses himself quickly, hand already at the door, before he turns around. He walks back over to me until we’re standing nose to nose.

He hesitantly catches my hands, and I respond by pulling him against me. I wrap my arms around his skinny waist and kiss him like he’s the air I so desperately need to breathe. He sighs and folds himself against me, pliant in my arms, warm against my mouth. My fingers claw into his jumper, and I hang on for dear life, wanting to keep him here and never leave.

Then the gong chimes, and the rustle of the crowd slowly but surely fills the air, footsteps sounding in the lobby and nearing the toilets. With the greatest effort I pull back, regret washing over me like a cold shower. The boy looks at me with a soft gleam in his bright green eyes. I conjure a little smile, grab his chin and place a last kiss on his lips, then Apparate out with a dry pop just as the door of the toilet creaks and people start flooding in.

I end up in an alley near the theatre. Wind and rain have me shivering, and I realise I left my coat at the theatre. Potter will likely recognise it when he goes to pick up his coat, with the Malfoy crest embroidered at my collar. I smile. For once I hope he'll use his brain, puzzling together the pieces until he draws a conclusion the boy would never confirm, but would haunt his dreams all the same. Like I know the magic of the boy, and what he gave to me, will haunt mine.


End file.
